Faraway Thunder
by Karma Kat 281
Summary: Sometimes, when England hears thunder, he goes back to the Blitz and needs to remember that he is not alone. Semi-fluffy FrUK one-shot.


**Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia is owned by Hidekazu Himaruya.**

_**xXx**_

The sky outside grew darker, but no one in the meeting hall seemed to notice. Someone kept droning on about tariffs, and everyone else was either taking or pretending to take notes.

Rain slowly started to fall.

The nations jumped in surprise when the first thunder crash boomed throughout the room, lightning following close behind. It was just a summer storm, though, so without more acknowledgement than a few sheepish grins exchanged, the nations went back to what they were doing.

All the nations, that is, but England. He tried to continue with his diligent note-taking, but if one was watching closely they would notice that the island nation's note-taking got shorter and his glances towards the windows grew longer as the storm built in intensity.

The only one who noticed anything was Canada, who grew concerned as he noticed England's jumpiness and white-knuckled grip on his pen. Finally, just as Canada was going to ask what was wrong, a particularly loud thunder crash was heard. The windows rattled in their frames and it seemed for a moment as if some angry god had finally gotten fed up with the world and had decided to end it all.

England was up and out of his seat in a clatter. He was gone out of the room before the ensuing lightning lit up the startled nations' faces. All that was left to face the remaining nations was England's papers fluttering slowly to the ground.

They all looked at each other. America summed up their feelings nicely. "What the hell?"

Germany sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead in annoyance. "Someone had better go get him," he said, looking around. "Where's France?"

Spain piped up with, "His airlines are on strike, so he's going to be late, remember?" Germany was even more annoyed. He wanted to go back to his important talk about tariffs. Luckily, America volunteered. "I'll go get Iggy! Maybe he's being chased by some monsters or something. I'm the hero, so I better rescue him."

"Yes, yes, you go do that." Germany shooed America away and turned back to his notes. "Now, back to the tariffs…"

The remaining nations sagged in disappointment; the drama was over.

_**xXx**_

After about ten minutes of searching, America finally found his old mentor in the main hallway by the entrance door, jacket in a heap on the ground beside him. It was as if England had grabbed his coat and almost made it to the door before he collapsed. He was huddled on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around his knees and head buried in his arms. When a frowning America grew closer, he noticed that the island nation was shaking.

"En- England?" America tentatively asked, his voice sounding quiet compared to the thunder outside. "What's wrong?" England didn't answer.

"England?" he tried again. Finally, the blonde superpower got down on his knees and wrenched England's arms away from his face. "Seriously, dude, what's up- what the _hell_?" England's green eyes were wide open and vacant, focused somewhere behind America's head. The blond nation was still shaking and tears were silently making their way down his cheeks.

England wasn't ignoring America. He genuinely hadn't heard him.

The super power froze; unsure of what to do. Saving his former mentor from monsters was one thing, but he had no idea how to deal with this. What was going on, anyway?

Suddenly, in time with a crash of thunder, the door to the building was flung open. The figure in the doorway was backlit by the lightning outside. America absolutely did not shriek like a little girl watching a horror film.

The lightning vanished and the figure was revealed by the inside lights as France, sodden and with dripping hair plastered to his face. "Where eez he?" France asked, accent thick like it always gets when he is agitated. "_Où est Angleterre?_" As the other nation threw himself through the doorway, America realized that France was not just agitated, he was verging on frantic.

"Dude, he's right here!" America answered, still on the ground. "But I think there's something wrong with him." France ignored him, zooming in on the shaking island nation next to America.

"_Angleterre," _he knelt down and said softly, touching England's cheek as gently as one would touch a butterfly's wing. "I am sorry for being late." England made no reaction. France didn't seem to expect one.

Another crash of thunder boomed through the building, and the lights flickered and went out. England _shrieked. _America swore and accidentally let go of the smaller nation's arms. The next few moments consisted of thrashing in the dark, America desperately trying to regain his hold on England, France's exclamations and, throughout it all, England's incessant shrieks.

Finally, the lights flickered back on and England quieted. France was wrapped tightly around England, arms restricting the smaller nation and holding England's head to the older nation's chest. He was slowly rocking them back and forth and whispering words into England's ear, so soft that America couldn't hear them.

America watched in silence as England shuddered, and then slowly- _slowly_- brought his hands up and curled them in the back of France's wet jacket. For the first time in a long while, the blond super power felt embarrassed. He had the striking feeling that he shouldn't be witnessing this.

So America got up and went back to the meeting room. If his brother was here, Canada would be shocked that America had read the atmosphere for once in his life.

France and England did not notice America leaving, although, to be fair, England wasn't in a state to notice anything right now. France seemed to hit upon an idea and, pausing in his soothing of England, reached over to his bag that he had dropped in his rush to get to the other nation. One-handed (the other was still wrapped around the other blond), he dug through his bag and took out an iPod. He carefully put the headphones over England's ears and pressed play.

_**xXx**_

The crash of bombs rang in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland's ears, and the tang of old blood assuaged his nose. He wandered around covered in ash like a ghost, feeling as lost as one. That is, he would if it weren't for the pain. The nation coughed wetly as he was wracked with a wave of agony. Another bomb- Kent was really getting hit hard this time.

England clenched his shirt with a bloody hand. _Fuck _Germany for going for his heart. England swore to himself that if he ever got out of this blasted Blitz, he would never drink German beer again in protest. Not that he did that much, anyway. Bloody awful stuff compared to his ale.

Suddenly, the blond nation was drawn out of his reverie by a cry of '_help!' _coming from nearby. He looked around, but saw nothing but smoking buildings and heaps of rubble and rash. And bodies, of course. All of the survivors from this area had been cleared out already.

The cry came again, though, so he continued to look around. The calls seemed to be coming from a nearby heap of rubble, buried under the shadow of the leaning, smoking ruin of an apartment building. Frowning, England strode over and answered, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Oh, thank God!" the voice answered. "We're trapped! Get us out, please!" England shouted back that he would get them out soon, don't worry, and then proceeded to dig at the rubble with his bare hands. Finally, he uncovered what looked like an air-raid shelter. Luckily, he had happened unto the hatch. "Don't worry," he said, opening the hatch and leaning down. "You lot are safe now."

_BOOM!_

Everything crashed down around him, and the last thought that England had as he tumbled down into darkness was '_Well, this is bloody ironic, isn't it?'_

_**xXx**_

England woke up to the taste of ash and blood. It took him a few blinks to realize that his eyes were open, because everything was pitch-black. Slowly, he remembered where he was and what had happened. He was wracked by a crippling pain and didn't know whether it was from London being bombed or something that had happened when- well, he must have been hit by a bomb and knocked down into the air-raid shelter.

The blond managed to reach up and feel his chest. It was sticky and when he touched the tips of his fingers to his tongue he tasted blood. That was nothing unusual, though.

"Are you okay?" a voice asked from somewhere in the darkness.

"F-fine," he managed, coughing weakly. "What happened?"

"A bomb hit," someone else answered glumly. "It must have knocked down the next-store building onto us. Now you're stuck down here with us."

"Do we have air?" England asked urgently. If the rubble had sealed off all of the air holes, then they were doomed. Well, maybe not him- _could nations suffocate?-_ but the rest, certainly.

"We have air, thank the good Lord," another voice, comfortable and matronly sounding, answered.

"Yeah," a third growled. "Now we just need to be found before we all starve to death. The food's already nearly gone."

After a brief silence as everyone contemplated their grim prospects, England struggled to sit up and forced an optimistic façade. "Well, someone's bound to find us soon, right? Who are all you lot, then?"

They slowly introduced themselves. There was Molly, a comfortable housewife, Mr. Kirkpatrick, a crotchety retired gardener, Louise, a girl whose young man was off fighting, and Dean, her little brother who wanted to be off fighting as soon as he could possible pass of as sixteen.

They were all terribly loyal to their country, and terribly brave. England tried his best not to become attached, and not to secretly promise himself that he would somehow save them. He failed at both.

He also failed to save them.

Louise died first, of starvation as predicted. There wasn't much they could do. There was nowhere to bury the body, so they just pushed it-_ her_- off to the side and tried to ignore it. Eventually, they didn't notice the smell or the aches of their bellies. Nonetheless, Dean wasn't the same after that, and died next.

Then Molly.

Then old Mr. Kirkpatrick, fierce to the last. His last words were, "Wish I coulda died in battle. Then at least I coulda took some of those damn Krauts with me." England held his hand and ignored the tears running down his face. In a choked whisper, he said, "You would have made a good soldier." The brave man was already gone.

Then England was alone with the four decaying bodies of his people that he had failed to save.

He told himself that someone would come- but who? America was all the way across the ocean, pretending to be above "Europe's issues". England tried not to hate him. Europe certainly had issues and the island nation wasn't sure that he wanted his former colony in a situation like this anyway. And France- France had problems of his own.

No one was coming. The bombs continued to fall. Soon, England wasn't aware of anything but the sound of distant bombs exploding and the corresponding pain in his chest as more and more of his people died while he was trapped and helpless. Right before the darkness won, the former empire wondered whether what he was feeling was heartbreak or real pain. He then scoffed at himself. As if heartbreak wasn't real pain.

Then, darkness.

_**xXx**_

It could have been days, weeks, or even years later when England first became aware again. There were voices above him- but he was probably imagining things. He had been hearing the screams of his people for a while.

These didn't sound like screams, however. "England?" a muffled voice came from above. "Are you there?" The emaciated nation opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't. Either his voice was gone from lack of use or taxed from _over _use. Were the screams he had been hearing his? He had no idea. The blond leaned his head back on the ground. _Tired…_

Luckily, the people above did not go away. The voice called again, then the sounds of digging filled the stale room. He must have blacked out again, for the next thing he knew England was being held in someone's arms and fresh air- the first he had smelt in who knows how long- filled his nose.

"England?" the same voice asked softly, horrified. Painfully and slowly, England cracked his eyes. The light, weak as it probably was through London's constant curtain of clouds, blinded him and tears streamed down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime.

The blond nation fought through it, however, and managed to open his eyes blearily to look at who was holding him. A face swam into view, with longish soft blond hair framing a worried face. "F-France?" England rasped, and then he corrected himself. "No, America?"

"Neither," the soft voice above him said. "It's Canada."

"Oh… Canada." England closed his eyes again. "Like your song… always liked that song…"

The person that England now knew as Canada turned his head away and snapped to someone, "He's hallucinating. Get a doctor! Now!" England fuzzily mused that the lad had sounded a whole lot more official than he usually did. He must be growing up.

The last thing England heard before he lost consciousness was Canada saying, "Don't worry, England. You're safe now. Everything is going to be fine."

_**xXx**_

The thunder stopped.

France's voice was hoarse by this time, but he still kept whispering reassurances in England's ear. He wasn't going to leave any time soon. Then, a rough voice asked, "France…?"

"_Angleterre!" _France gasped. "You are awake?" Slowly, as if half asleep, England responded. "Why… am I listening… to French love songs?" France chuckled. Both nations ignored that it was more out of relief than amusement. "I was listening to that playlist on the plane," he answered. "Want to know who I was thinking of~?"

England didn't answer but just buried his head deeper into France's chest. The older nation could tell that the other's ears were red- he must be blushing- but he didn't retort with one of his usual endearing insults. France felt a pang of guilt. It must be too soon to tease. In apology, he ran his fingers through England's messy blond locks, and then gently kissed the top of his head (that answered the question, anyway).

Embarrassed, England muttered, "It's been seventy years now. This is ridiculous." France shook his head. "_Non, Angleterre, _these things never really go away. And besides, it was this time of the year, yes? You must be having dreams, too, so this is only natural." England didn't reply, but France knew he had heard by the way his shaking reduced.

When England had finally stopped shaking altogether, France helped him onto his feet and into his coat. The shorter nation did not meet his concerned gaze, green eyes focused on the ground and a slight blush on his cheeks. France didn't say anything but just took England's hand and led him to the door. "W-wait!" England balked, "I left my notes in the meeting room, and the meeting's not over yet-."

France _tsk_ed. "Always thinking of work, _Angleterre,_" he said in mock admonishment. "Someone else will grab your notes, and the meeting must almost be over by now anyway." He pulled England towards the door again, and this time the other man followed.

_**xXx**_

America stared out the window as the rain continued to pour down. Meetings were sooo boring without the antics of France and England. Besides, Russia was staring at him and it was kind of freaking him out. Or it would if, you know, he wasn't a hero.

Then he saw the two blonde nations walk onto the sidewalk outside. England was holding his umbrella over both himself and France, and saying something. Knowing him, he was probably scolding the taller nation for forgetting his umbrella. America smiled fondly.

France said something, smirking, and England turned bright red and tried to hit the other over the head with the very object saving them from the downpour. France caught his wrist and brought the umbrella down, leaving them both in the rain. He said something again, smiling more softly this time. England, still blushing like a stop sign, reached up, entangled his fingers in France's blond hair, and kissed the surprised-looking man.

France dropped England's wrist and England dropped his umbrella and the next thing America knew they were entwined around each other, exchanging smiling open-mouthed kisses in the rain.

For an unprecedented second time that day, America read the atmosphere and turned away. Canada just smiled softly to himself and silently gathered up England's notes.

The sun came out.

_**xXx**_

**I'll let you guess what France said to him at the end. It had something to do with having more important things to do than grab umbrellas…**

**Notes: In this story, England has PTSD. Sometimes when he hears thunder, he's plunged back into the Blitz, especially when he's been having nightmares about it recently.**

**For those of you who don't know, the Blitz was a period of about a year in the beginning of WW2 (1940- 1941) when Germany was bombing London. At this point the Allies consisted of France, England, and Canada. France has already been occupied by Germany. America, of course, does not come in until the end of '41 when Japan bombs Pearl Harbor.**


End file.
